Bill Crider - Dan Rhodes 07 - Murder Most Fowl Read online

  “Do you know something I don’t know?” Rhodes asked.

  “Hah,” Hack snorted. “Don’t we always?”

  “Like what?” Rhodes said. He was genuinely curious. Though Hack and Lawton seemed to spend their lives in the jail, they actually got around more than Rhodes did, and they often heard things that people wouldn’t tell the local sheriff.

  “Well,” Hack said, “like this here computer.” He looked fondly at the monitor and the big gray box it sat on. “I kept tellin’ you for years that we needed one, but you wouldn’t listen. You were just like Lige, tryin’ to keep on livin’ in the past. I was right, though. You — “

  “He’s not talkin’ about any computer,” Lawton said. He was no more fond of the computer than Rhodes was. He was upwards of seventy, but with his round, unlined face he looked like a slightly overage cherub. “He’s talkin’ about important stuff. Like Lige Ward.”

  That was more like it, Rhodes thought. “That’s who I was talking about, all right,” he said.

  “I’m not the one implied that I knew anything about Lige,” Hack said, looking hurt. “And I bet Lawton don’t know anything, either. He just likes to run his mouth.”

  “I’ve heard a few things,” Lawton said. “When you don’t spend all your time hangin’ out with wild women, you hear a few things.”

  “You take that back,” Hack said, standing up. He was as old as Lawton, but he was tall and thin, with a thin brown moustache. “Miz McGee ain’t no wild woman.”

  Now that things were back to normal, Rhodes relaxed. “If you two can quit jawing at each other, maybe one of you could tell me what it is you know about Lige Ward.”

  Hack sat down. “I can’t tell you a thing. I spend all my time hangin’ out with wild women. You’ll just have to ask Lawton. He’s just jealous, anyhow.”

  “I ain’t jealous,” Lawton said. “I don’t care how you spend your time. It don’t mean a thing to me.”

  “Never mind that,” Rhodes said. “Tell me what you’ve heard about Lige.”

  Lawton got a thoughtful look on his face. Rhodes waited expectantly, while Hack looked at his computer monitor as if maybe there was something there in the glowing letters that Rhodes couldn’t read from across the room.

  “I can’t remember,” Lawton said after a minute.

  Hack laughed. “I may be runnin’ with wild women, but at least I ain’t lost my mind yet. You’ve got Oldtimer’s Disease, Lawton, that’s what you’ve got.”

  It was Lawton’s turn to have his feelings hurt. “Don’t neither. I know I heard somethin’. I just can’t think of it right now.” He looked over at Rhodes. “But it’ll come to me sooner or later.”

  Rhodes nodded. “You let me know when you think of it.”

  “Seems like it had somethin’ to do with chickens,” Lawton said.

  But he didn’t think of what he’d heard until a few days later, and by then Rhodes had pretty much forgotten about the whole thing.

  It all came back to him, though.

  Chapter Two

  Rhodes got the call on Sunday afternoon when he and Ivy were watching Randolph Scott, a particular favorite of Rhodes, on video tape. One of Ted Turner’s cable channels had run six or seven of Scott’s movies back to back, and Rhodes had recorded as many of them as he could get on a single tape. The one they were watching was Decision at Sundown.

  “I never believed those rumors,” Ivy said, taking a handful of the air-popped corn from the bowl on the coffee table.

  Rhodes took a handful too. He preferred his popcorn soaked with butter and then heavily salted, but Ivy insisted that there was far too much fat in such a concoction. So he settled for what he could get.

  “What rumors?” he asked.

  “You know,” Ivy said. “The ones about Randolph Scott.”

  Rhodes had never heard any rumors about Randolph Scott. He asked again, “What rumors?”

  Ivy shook her head, making her short hair dance. “Oh, you know. The rumors that he was gay.”

  Rhodes sat up straight, nearly choking on his popcorn and forgetting all about the movie. “What?”

  “Well, you know. He was rooming with Cary Grant, and there was that photo of the two of them, and Grant was wearing a woman’s dressing gown … .“

  “You’re making this up,” Rhodes said.

  Ivy laughed. “No, I’m not. It’s all true. I heard those rumors when I was in high school.”

  “Well I didn’t,” Rhodes said. “And I don’t believe them.”

  “Me neither,” Ivy said.

  The phone rang then, and Rhodes was just as glad. Somehow he didn’t feel like watching TV anymore. Not that it made a bit of difference, even if Randolph Scott had been gay, which Rhodes didn’t believe for a minute, but still … .

  “Hello,” he said.

  “Sheriff?” It was Hack. “I wouldn’t bother you, but Ruth’s down at Thurston, and we got a little trouble you need to know about.”

  Ruth was Deputy Ruth Grady. Even with her out of town, Rhodes knew Hack wouldn’t ordinarily call him at home on a Sunday afternoon if there weren’t some sort of emergency.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  “Got a call from down toward Sand Creek. Seems like there’s some shootin’ goin’ on.”

  “What kind of shooting?”

  “Didn’t say. Prob’ly just some kids hoo-rawin’ around. But there’s a baptizin’ in the creek today, and the shootin’s coming from pretty near that shallow place that Brother Alton likes to use.”

  “I’m on the way,” Rhodes said.

  Sand Creek was about a mile out of Clearview, and it was running just about full owing to the heavy rains at the end of May a week earlier, probably the last good rains before fall. The conditions weren’t the best for a baptizing, but the place that Brother Alton Downey of the Free Will Church of the Lord Jesus liked to use was about as safe as any. The bank sloped gently there, and even when the creek was full a man could pretty well immerse someone without getting out in the creek to where there was enough of a current to cause a problem.

  Rhodes pulled off to the side of the county road and parked his car as close as he could to the wooden bridge that spanned the creek. There were several other cars already parked there, all of them belonging to the members of Brother Alton’s church. Brother Alton’s old black Cadillac Fleetwood was in front of all the others.

  As soon as he opened his car door, Rhodes could hear gunshots.

  He could see where they were coming from, too. There were three young men running awkwardly along the creek bank, and every time there was a clearing in the trees that lined the bank, the men stopped. One of the men would steady his right hand with his left and fire a shot or two through the opening in the trees, and all three men would jump and yell. Then the man who had fired the pistol would hand it to one of the others, who would take his turn at the next clearing.

  They were shooting at a portable toilet that was floating right down the middle of the creek.

  It looked to Rhodes a little bit like a silver bullet with its base submerged in the water. There were silver grills around the top near the roof, and there was some lettering on one side, but Rhodes couldn’t make it out.

  What he could make out was the consternation on the faces of Brother Alton and those members of his small congregation who had gathered for the baptizing. They were standing calf-deep in the muddy water of the creek, hearing gunshots and looking at the silver outhouse that was about seventy yards away and bearing down on them.

  Rhodes walked down to the creek bank through the tall green weeds and grass. There were quite a few pairs of shoes lined up just at the edge of the grass.

  “You about finished with your business, Brother Alton?” Rhodes asked.

  Brother Alton was tall and thin, and he had on a black suit, a white shirt, and a wide black tie. His pants legs were rolled up to his knees, but they were wet anyway. He wore rimless glasses that reflected the sunlight, and his face was crossha
tched with wrinkles.

  “It’s the Lord’s business we’re doin’ here,” he said. “And I’m not so sure we’ll be able to finish it. Sister Midgie is mighty upset with all the shootin’, and we can’t get her completely immersed. You know a baptizin’s no good if you’re not completely immersed.”

  Sister Midgie looked at Rhodes miserably. Her hair hung wet and lank, water dripping off the ends of her bangs and running down her face. Her clothes were thoroughly soaked. It appeared that there had been several unsuccessful attempts at complete immersion.

  “I’ll put a stop to the shooting,” Rhodes said. “But I’m not sure what I can do about the toilet.”

  Brother Alton’s lip curled at the mention of the toilet. Rhodes supposed that it was all right to talk about gunshots at a baptism, but portable toilets were something else entirely. Rhodes decided to get back to a more tasteful topic.

  “You just relax, Sister Midgie,” he said, “and go on and get baptized so you can get out of that water.”

  “I’ll try, Sheriff,” Sister Midgie said.

  “Good,” Rhodes said. “You go ahead with your ceremony, Brother Alton, and I’ll go see about those boys with the pistol.”

  “Drunks,” Brother Alton said, drawing himself up self-righteously. “Slaves of the Demon Rum, and on the Sabbath day, at that.”

  It was more likely the Demon Lone Star Beer than the Demon Rum, Rhodes thought, but there was no use in getting into a theological argument with Brother Alton. Rhodes started walking through the deep weeds toward the three men with the gun. His feet squished occasionally on the still-soaked ground.

  After he had covered about ten yards, he looked back over his shoulder. Brother Alton had his thumb and forefinger clasped over Sister Midgie’s nose, the palm of his hand covering her mouth. All of her below her shoulders was submerged, and she was sinking fast. Rhodes figured that this time the baptism would be completed. All he had to worry about was three drunks with a pistol.

  They saw him coming and started passing the pistol from one to the other, laughing loudly all the while. When he got up to them, the pistol was nowhere to be seen. He didn’t know any of them, but they knew him. Or at least they knew who he was.

  “Heighdy, Sheriff,” they said, almost in unison. A heady odor of beer fumes surrounded them. The three men had probably consumed enough beer to completely immerse Sister Midgie.

  “Where’s the gun, fellas?” Rhodes asked, looking them over. They were all dressed in western straw hats, western shirts, boots, and jeans, and not a one of them was more than twenty-five.

  One of them laughed. “What gun?” he asked. He was a little older than the other two and he had a strong, square chin. “We don’t have any gun.”

  “Sure you do,” Rhodes said. “You were using it to shoot up that toilet there.” He pointed through the trees at the silver shape floating lazily down the creek.

  The three young men broke up in laughter when they looked at the toilet, slapping shoulders and punching arms.

  “I don’t guess you’d know a thing about how that toilet got there, would you?” Rhodes asked.

  That impressed them as being even funnier, and Rhodes thought for a second that they might all fall down from laughing. Before they did, he told them that he wanted them to do something for him.

  “Just some simple tests,” he said, and told them what he wanted them to do.

  They tried, but none of them could quite touch his nose after first closing his eyes, and none of them could quite stand on one foot for more than three seconds. One of them fell over and had to be helped up by his friends, who seemed to think it was one of the funniest things that had ever happened, even more hilarious than Rhodes’ mention of the outhouse.

  “Where’s your car parked?” Rhodes asked after they were all standing and the laughter had subsided.

  “Truck,” the oldest one said. “We came in a truck.”

  “Let’s go have a look at it,” Rhodes said. “The walk will do you good.”

  Brother Alton had been right. They’d been drinking for sure, and more than a little. Rhodes thought he’d find the hard evidence in their truck. He started walking.

  They didn’t give him any argument; they just followed along behind him, occasionally stumbling into one another and guffawing.

  It was about a half mile to the county road where they’d parked, near a bridge that was a lot more rickety than the one Rhodes had stopped by. On the way there they passed three empty aluminum beer cans. He had the men pick them up.

  “They’re bringing about thirty cents a pound,” Rhodes pointed out. “Besides, you don’t want to mess up the environment.”

  “We didn’t put those cans here,” the spokesman said.

  “Maybe not,” Rhodes agreed, looking at the can the man was holding.

  It wasn’t Lone Star after all. It was Coors Light. The Silver Bullet.

  Well, Rhodes thought, you can’t be right about everything. Anyway, considering what the outhouse looked like, what could be more appropriate?

  When they reached the road, the men were a little more sober than they’d been when the walk had started, but not much.

  It was no wonder. There was a red Toyota pickup parked by the bridge. It was backed up to the side of the bridge, so that something heavy, like a portable toilet, could have been slid out and into the creek.

  The pickup’s tailgate was open, and the truck bed was littered with Coors Light cans, even more than Rhodes had expected. The drinking had been going on for quite a while. Many of the cans were partially flattened, probably from the outhouse’s having rested on them. There were sticks and dry leaves and chicken feathers mixed in among the cans near the cab of the truck.

  Rhodes walked behind the truck and closed the tailgate. He noticed that the TO and TA had been painted out, so that the tailgate no longer announced the manufacturer’s name. It just said, “YO.” The tailgate was hot from the sun, and Rhodes moved his hands.

  “You can throw those cans you’re holding in there with the rest of them,” Rhodes said, and they did. The cans clattered against the bed, bounced a time or two and were still.

  “Now then,” Rhodes said. “Let’s take care of a little unfinished business. Where’s the pistol?”

  One of the younger men, who had ears that stuck out from the sides of his head, said, “He’s got it.”

  He pointed to their spokesman, who didn’t say anything. He just reached behind his back and pulled the gun from under his shirt.

  Rhodes took it from him. “That’s good,” he said.

  The pistol was a .38 caliber Smith and Wesson revolver. Rhodes opened the cylinder, but there were no cartridges inside. That was even better.

  “Now,” he told the three men, “let’s see some identification.”

  They got out their wallets and showed him their drivers’ licenses.

  The oldest one was Michael Ferrin, age twenty-five. The one with the big ears was Kyle Foster, twenty-three. The one who still hadn’t said a word was Lawrence Galloway, also twenty-three.

  “Well now,” Rhodes said, “which one of you wants to tell me how that portable toilet got in the creek? How about you Lawrence?”

  Lawrence blinked. “Larry,” he said. “Ever’body calls me Larry.”

  “All right, Larry. How about it?”

  “I guess that was our fault,” Larry said, looking down at his dusty boots. “We sorta put it there.”

  “I figured that,” Rhodes said. “The question is, how are you going to get it out?”

  The three men looked at one another. No one seemed to have any idea until Ferrin said, “We can rope it.”

  “Right,” Foster said. “That’s what we can do. Where’s that lariat rope?”

  “In the truck,” Ferrin said.

  Rhodes couldn’t think of anything better to do. “Get it,” he said.

  Ferrin opened the door on the driver’s side and pulled the seat forward. He reached behind it and came out with a c
oiled rope. He slammed the door.

  “Here it is,” he said. “We can rope that son of a bitch.”

  Rhodes wasn’t sure that any one of the three was in any kind of shape to rope a tree stump, much less the toilet, but at the same time he thought it might be a good idea to try to get it out of the creek before it floated into the next county. It was worth a try.

  “All right,” he said. “We’ll walk back down to the other bridge. There’s a good clear space there just before you get there, and maybe you can get a rope on that thing from the bank.”

  “Why do we have to walk?” Larry Galloway asked. “Why can’t we go in the truck?”

  “Because you need a little fresh air,” Rhodes said. “And because you don’t want a DWI on your record.”

  “I’m not intos—intos—intoxicated,” Galloway informed him. “And I wouldn’t be drivin’ anyhow. It’s not my truck.”

  “It’s mine,” Ferrin said.

  “I don’t care whose truck it is,” Rhodes told them. “We’re going to walk.”

  They started back toward the spot where the baptizing was going on. Rhodes could hear the Brother Alton’s small congregation singing “Shall We Gather at the River,” so he supposed the ceremony was over. Maybe they would be gone by the time the outhouse and the ropers arrived.

  They weren’t gone, however. They had walked back to their cars, but they all stood there watching, waiting to see what Rhodes was going to do. Even Midgie, wrapped around with towels now, was standing there to see what would happen.

  What happened was that Michael Ferrin tried to twirl a noose into the rope and got so tangled up in it that Rhodes had to free him. The other two were laughing too much to be of any help.

  “I thought you were a roper,” Kyle Foster said when he got his breath back.

  Rhodes thought that someone had better be a roper or it was going to be too late. The portable toilet was already directly in front of them, and in a minute or two it would be on down the creek and behind the cover of the trees again.

  “Give me that rope,” he said, and Ferrin handed it to him.

  Rhodes had never harbored any illusions about his abilities as a rodeo cowboy, but when he was young he had read a biography of Will Rogers and for a few weeks afterward had spent a lot of hours in his back yard trying to learn a few simple rope tricks. He’d never gotten very good at any of them, but he’d also spent some time lassoing his parents’ lawn chairs, and he’d gotten fairly good at that. That had been a long time ago, however. Maybe it was like riding a bicycle and would all come back to him. He hoped so.